Marvelous-MURDEROUS-Mexican-Margaritas!

This is a classic Lori Post. According to my mother, not only can I not walk and chew gum at the same time, I also get into trouble at the drop of rain. With negative consequences to myself, always! So moral of the following tale: don’t drink Margaritas in Mexico.

I have an intolerance to most alcohol. Anything with sulfites sets off a weird reaction with my nerves. Alcohol seems to go right into my veins. I read once that some women lack the gene necessary to break it down in the stomach, and it gets absorbed whole. My mom is the same way, she gets deathly ill from it. So generally I stay away from alcohol except for special outings.

Saying that, margaritas are special. I can suck one down in about 5 seconds and then I look woefully at the bottom. So, usually, I get it frozen to avoid the temptation of downing it in one gulp. In the US, I can drink several with no problem. Win-win.

I was pretty happy when La Distilleria brought me an enormous Margarita for my first Mexican/Cancun meal. I have blunted taste from months of chemotherapy and a surgery to remove part of my tongue, so while I noticed that it tasted different, I just thought it was “authentic” Mexican. My husband also had one, but he didn’t start on his until I had sucked down 3/4 of mine. One sip and, “Um, honey, this margarita is tequila with a splash of lime. It just burned the hair off my chest.” We looked at my now-almost-empty class. I giggled. That was why I felt so great. I wondered why. Brent sighed. “So I will have to carry you out I see. Great first meal.”

I’m smiling but no one is home

That margarita plastered me. I couldn’t even talk. I tried to sound smart, and in my ears I sounded just like those people who were trying really hard to talk and not sound wasted. Oh man. And thanks to how I don’t seem to metabolize it, I just got worse throughout the course of the meal.

I insisted on walking home. Now, when one is inebriated in a foreign country, and doesn’t know more then a few trite phrases: “Que es el bano?” “Si!” “Que hora es?” Uno to Vente. “Me llamo Lori.” “Hola, como esta?” “Bien!” and the ever important “Gracias” and “por favore”… (don’t get me on the spelling)….. then one should not consider walking back to one’s hotel. My fuzzy brain thought that I could “walk it off”.

My fuzzy brain was wrong. My husband had to lead me, holding my hand the whole way and yelling about how stupid he was to listen to me. It was dark and the sidewalk was narrow at points and hard to follow. All of the sudden the earth hiccupped. Honestly, it really did. I found myself sliding along the sidewalk on my left knee. Excruciating burning pain. I was too numb to realize how bad the pain was. I actually got up and limped two more blocks.

I fell on the bed saying “Ow, ow, ow, ow, it hurts, is it bad? What should I do?” Over and over. Brent brought a washcloth, but I screamed when he touched my knee. I opened one blurry eye. My knee looked like a piece of steak. All the skin burned off with a shiny bright red cast and a huge bruise underneath. By that time I could not get up. I refused to toss my dinner.

Brent had the foresight to bring some bandaids and colloidal silver topical gel, but I needed a maxipad. Great idea! I used a maxipad and two bandaids to keep it on.

This looks way better than what it is as you cant see the egg on my knee or how deep it is from this angle. Notice the maxipad on the side 🙂

I refused to let this ruin my vacation, but I was laid up for much of the week. I couldn’t stand anything on my knee. No clothes, sheets, water, nothing. And I couldn’t stand the maxipad or the silver gel. So of course by day three the middle opened up and started to get infected. I had to grit my teeth and re-start the silver, which did keep it from getting worse.

I hobbled through my week and finally got in the pool midway through. Most of our excursions were cancelled and I just sat around and watched the waves.

So now I have great respect for the Mexican margarita. That or those people in the restaurant got me drunk on purpose. I was afraid to try another, although Brent did try one later in the week (a habanero dusted margarita with tequila gold at our hotel where we trusted the people) and said it tasted nothing like the first. Yup, those greedy waiters meant to get me drunk. Thank you, I have learned my lesson!

And how is my knee? Eight days later it is still infected and painful, but I started medical honey yesterday and it is better looking. Gotta love those Australians and their love of honey. The Center for Honey does nothing but research the properties of honey. I use it for most topical wounds. Great on MRSA–cured my daughter’s outbreak that not even a 2000.00 antibiotic could kill. It is amazing how cultures like Egypt knew to use honey on wounds. Thousands of years later, we are just re-discovering what man once knew very well.